Holy shit!
JOHN JOSEPH TURRIE, AKA “JOJO!”
The type jumped off the page.
Quivering, his lips moved as he skipped back and forth, rereading the name, the date, the address. February 1995. Little over eight years ago.
Everybody in the joint knew about that bust in Bayport. The night Danny Turrie’s kid, Jojo, got shot to little pieces by the cops. Resisting arrest, they said. But, Danny T. Holy shit, man; his biker gang ran all the drugs in the joint. Had a regular empire on the streets…
He went back to the top of the document and read it again in the gloomy light. Speed-reading now. Racing over the printed pages…
Pages and pages that detailed buys, repeated mention of an undercover operator…all the meticulous constructed ratfuckery the narcs gloried in. Gator dropped the Camel butt that had burned down and scorched his fingers, lit another. Continued to wade through the tortured blocks of type until he came to the last paragraph:
Gator read the last entries on the page. This Cantrell guy’s signature sworn before a judge of the District Court on this 20th day of February, 1995.
Looked at the memo on the front again.
Fingers shaking, he took out his cell phone. No service. Had to get closer to the town tower. He put the truck in gear and drove a few miles down the road until his phone display picked up extended area. Thumbed the number in St. Paul. Hit send. Watched the display connect…
Shit. Wait. Think.
There were rules. Getting ahead of himself, like the dummies in the joint. He ended the call, dropped the cell in his lap, and continued to the north end of town until he came to the Last Chance Amoco station and general store. He pulled up to a pump, started the gas, set the automatic feed clip, and walked to the phone booth at the edge of the parking apron.
Got the machine. Sheryl Mott’s voice, sounding very officious, like she was a high-powered executive secretary in some corporation instead of a waitress at Ciatti’s in St. Paul.
“I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message.”
He pictured Sheryl’s apartment off Grand Avenue in St. Paul. Like the cosmetics aisle at Target tipped over. He’d been unable to get it together in her space. Went in her bathroom one morning and couldn’t find the sink, it was so covered with cosmetics and shampoo bottles. But, on the other hand, when she road-tripped…
So, grinning, he left the message: “Hiya, Sheryl, this is Joe at Rapid Oil Change. You’re overdue on your three-thousand-mile service. Probably need your fluids checked, too.” Then he left a made-up number and ended the call. She’d like the humor. Wouldn’t like it if he came off all hyped up.
He went back to his truck, reseated the nozzle in the pump, and went in to pay. Remembering the kitty in his pocket, he grabbed a gallon of whole milk and a sack of Chef ’s Blend Cat food. After paying for the gas and items, he walked back out to his truck. A black Ford Ranger had pulled in behind him to gas up, and he nodded at Teedo Dove, the hulking Indian dude who stood watching the numbers tick off on the pump. Teedo gave him back one of those great stone-face barest of nods. Ugly fucker looked like one of those Easter Island statues. Worked for Harry Griffin, on his stone crew. Small world.
Then he climbed back in his truck. Heading back up 12 toward his farm, he imagined Sheryl swinging her butt between the tables, balancing a tray on her shoulder.
Man, he needed another set of eyes to look over his find, to vet it. And what Sheryl had going for her, among other things, was a steel-trap mind.
Bouncing in his seat, reaching down frequently to caress the magic kitty, he drove back to the farm and parked next to the shop. First, he jogged to the house, went straight for the kitchen cupboard, got two bowls, and took them back to the office in the front of the shop. He placed the bowls on the floor, filled one with kitty chow, and poured some milk in the other. Then, carefully, he removed the skittish kitten from his jacket pocket, checked between its hind legs. She. He placed her next to the bowl.
“Go on, Magic, pig out.”
The cat ran and hid under the desk. Be patient. She’d be back. He stripped off his jacket, retrieved the fax sheets, put them on his desk, and circled Broker’s name and Visa number. Then he tucked them into the manila folder with the warrants and put the file in his desk drawer.
Had to calm down.
So he resorted to ritual. He poured the dregs from the Mister Coffee into a cup, selected a yellow number-two pencil off his desk blotter, and walked to the alcove off the office. It had originally been a bathroom. Gator had removed the door and put in a cot along the wall. Just the toilet and the cot.
His thinking place.
He sat on the floor next to the commode and snapped the pencil in half. Then, slowly, he peeled away the wood pulp with his thumbnail and eased out two lengths of graphite. Wrapped the ends in toilet paper.
He fingered a Camel from his chest pocket, then carefully inserted the pencil lead pieces into the wall outlet and crossed them. When they sparked and the paper ignited, he bent, placing the cigarette to the flame, puffing, until he had a light. Then he sat back and savored the cigarette. Smoke had never tasted so good. Or old reheated coffee. He could almost hear the night murmurs of the joint.
By the time he finished the cigarette, the kitty had edged out from under the desk and dipped her whiskers in the milk.
See. Like a sign.
Gator refilled the cat’s bowl, brought the milk carton back into the house, and put it in the refrigerator. Then he took a hot shower, changed into fresh clothes, and heated a fast Hungry Man dinner in the microwave. After he bolted the food, he paced.
Calm down, wait for Sheryl to call.
He glanced out the window, across the yard at the lights in his shop, the spotlight illuminating the tractor in the front. Lot of hard work went into putting that operation together-even if it was a front for something more ambitious.
You gotta keep your eye on the overall plan. Go off half cocked, and you’re just like those institutionalized fools on a revolving door. Wait for Sheryl to call. The way it worked, that meant another drive to the phone booth; this time the one in town, outside Perry’s grocery.
They communicated strictly by pay phones. She’d call at six. He had some time, so he made a cup of instant coffee and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Camels. When the coffee was ready, he sat down at the kitchen
